


the zombie song

by billspilledquill



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Crack, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mentions of gore/blood, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 01:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15159737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Good thing that Hamlet is dead so that he won’t worry about his own mortality anymore. Now the only things he worries about are his not yet dead uncle, a very cute human and the fact that somehow he is not as dead as he thought himself to be.





	the zombie song

 

“My lord, if you will please allow me to say a word on this matter— what the fuck?”

“Aye,” Hamlet says. “What is this fuckery.” That said, he proceeds to retreat himself in a corner and mutter things that Horatio definitely doesn’t need to hear.

Horatio sighs, goes to his side anyway. “My lord–“

Hamlet leaps up, already breathless at this show of incredible physical prowess. He grabs him by the shoulder. “ Okay, first of all,” he says. “Don’t fucking all me my lord. Wrong century, my dude.”

“Denmark is still a country,” he points out. “You still read Kant for fun.”

“Yeah well, my Mother is not a Queen. She is coupling with my uncle, do you think that any respectable people in the highest office of their country would do that?”

“I can hear the capitalization of the word, my lord.” He says. “Also, have you ever flip a history book?”

“Rousseau said that all history is a lie.” Hamlet quotes. Horatio frowns. He is not sure about that. “Please just call me Hamlet and let us return to the all more important fact that my father is fucking dead and my mother is dead–“

“Your mother is dead in love with your uncle.” He says, and adds, “My lord.”

“Mine own uncle,” Hamlet says, gritting through his teeth. “Don’t think adding feudal titles make everything better.”

“Um,” Horatio says. “Then I guess maybe it will be wise to point out that your father is not dead?”

“I know,” he grumbles. “He is the same as Ophelia, you need to learn that even though his brain may be absent, he is still your beloved Father! He may look green and pockmarked with blood, but he hears you in his heart! Cheer up, my boy!” He says, his voice pitched, “Oh, by the way, he doesn’t have a heart, _honey_ , it’s the apocalyptic age, we are all dying– and oh look, boy! Ophelia is singing while eating someone’s brain!”

“Ophelia likes to sing Lady Gaga when she is doing that,” he points out.

Hamlet stills for a few seconds and burst into laughter. His thin shoulder blades shake with hysteria and he clutches Horatio tight against his chest. When he looks up, some left over chuckles bubble up his chest through his tears. “I can’t believe Lady Gaga’s songs survive better at a zombie apocalypse than us.”

“Your mother and uncle certainly do better too,” he says unhelpfully.

Hamlet rolls his eyes. “They are helping for the future generation of humanity to be replicated with low morals.”

Horatio looks at outside. Their stretched blanket barely cover up their basement. The sun is slowly setting.

“They are not human, Horatio,” Hamlet mutters under his breath, “Everyone tells me to move the fuck on when my Father was bit, and now they are not even here because of shitty wifi and their dead bodies.”

“There’s still Laetres,” he amends. Hamlet is looking out the small window as well, his big eyes trailing over the orange tainted grass. He tries to curl into himself further, his brown curls falling all over his shoulder.

There’s a hollow laughter. “He tried to kill me when I drove his sister out that day after the breakup,” he says, and tilts his head to the left. “I loved her, you know. Loved her more than a thousand brothers with horrible fashion styles can love her.”

“I know. He joined Brotherhood and is currently the number asshole in the team,” he says for the hundred times after Hamlet’s hundred attempts to say a complete sentence without biting the inside of his cheeks. “Come here, my lord.”

Hamlet hums, closes his eyes, but makes no movement. “Come here, Horatio.”

“Stop being a little shit,” he says. “We can be dead in every minute.”

“God, I wish.”

“ _My lord._ ”

Hamlet falls on the floor without ceremony. With his arms wide open, he smiles at Horatio. “What?”

“I want to cut your hair,” he says, grabbing the knife beside him.

“Oh,” Hamlet blinks, a gentle flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, I know it’s getting longer. But I mean, with that? Seriously? You just told me that we can die at any moment.”

“Don’t worry, I will be ready if someone comes in so that I can kill them with this knife.”

“That doesn’t exactly convince me, _my lord._ ”

Horatio entangles his fingers in Hamlet’s soft curls, feeling the consistency. He whispers, “Hamlet.”

He gasps not very subtly and not caring the knife in Horatio’s hand, he grabs him by the wrist and grins, happier than he had seen him for days. “Yes, that’s my name.” _Say it again._

And then to Hamlet’s unwavering smile, Horatio rises his hair and cuts it with a slack of the knife. Hamlet screams, but at least has the decency of covering his mouth. He wonders why Hamlet hasn’t been dead yet, but he thinks that’s just because he is here, “What the hell, Horatio? We were having a bonding moment here!”

Horatio lets the hair falls one by one. He thinks he hears a sob somewhere.

The freshly cut hair has curled up at its edges. Hamlet’s mouth is curled downward, that is. Horatio tries not to think of a very, very cat-like dog.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes, my feelings.” He says, and clutches his chest as if he had been shot.

“My lord,” he says.

“I did all this just for you to say my name and it all results to a broken heart and a half-shaved hair.” He cries, crossing his arms. “I don’t know if I should just throw myself into the crowd right now or after the sun has set. Better chances at getting eaten then, I guess.”

Hamlet is not knowing what he is doing, he thinks when he runs down his hand down Hamlet’s hair, to feel the hair tickling his fingers. Hamlet is crazy sometimes. He is going to send us all to death.

Hamlet is suddenly silent. Horatio retreats his hand as if it were burnt.

He doesn’t look at Horatio when he runs a hand to his hair, ruffling it in such a way that Horatio feared he might pull off his scalp all together. He lets out a shuttered breath before saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, to himself or Horatio. “I just, yeah, sorry, sometimes, it just happens, sorry.”

Horatio shrugs to disguise the fact that he wants a run away a little. Hamlet is not crazy. “Don’t throw yourself in front of a crowd.”

“Of course,” he says.

“You will not go to it.”

“Not now,” he says. “No.”

Making promises with Hamlet is lose thread, because he can’t not bet his life in them. He nods, and tenses when he hears footsteps.

He looks again at the broken window, the sun is turning purple. The grass is trampled. The sun is setting. Hamlet sighs in relief if nothing else.

They are coming.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love feedbacks as much as horatio loves hamlet’s hair tbh  
> Thank you for reading!


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